


the only one

by onewingedbird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewingedbird/pseuds/onewingedbird
Summary: Sansa escapes King's Landing after Joffrey's death and arrives at Castle Black, determined to take back her home by any means necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

Her lord husband touches her hand and urges her to eat. She doesn’t want to. What does she have left to live for with Mother and Robb now dead, their bodies desecrated? She is nearly alone in the world. Arya could be alive, somewhere, but it isn’t likely. The truth is either terrible or boring, and it seems only terrible truths are left to her now.

 

She spends hours on her knees in the godswood. She doesn’t pray, spending her stolen solitude thinking through her circumstances. There is no one left to fight for save herself, and she isn’t sure that’s a worthy enough reason to survive. What use is a stupid girl? Were she alive her lady mother would want her to. Father would. The dead have no desires. 

 

Joffrey is as cruel as he is handsome. They call it the Red Wedding and have it reenacted in front of her. He searches her face for her pain but he finds none. It is no worse than her own imaginings. Here, there is laughter and wine. In her mind, there is only her mother’s cries and rasp of death, the splash as her body hits the river.

 

Later, she goes to the traitor’s walkway. None of the guards are here; she could just slip away if she wishes it. It is a long fall but shorter than the one from the broken tower at Winterfell. She could survive and be crippled, more at the Lannister’s mercy than ever, not even able to shift away when they hurt her. For a moment, she wonders if that would be better. Let them hurt her. Let them make her feel something other than this loss.

 

She sees Bran and Rickon’s burned bodies. Her father’s head cleaved from his. She could die here and now, and they would sing a song for her and her dear dead family. A song about the Lannisters’ dominance over their enemies. She cannot name this thing in her that lifts her jaw and stiffens her spine. She only knows that this is not how she wants to die: the last of her house, tossing herself off some wall in despair.

 

Her death will mean something, if only to herself.

 

She walks the halls of the keep. Ages ago, she was as she is now, unafraid and hopeful that she might see a blonde-haired Lannister. She is found by Joffrey after a time. She need not force her limbs to stop their trembling now. She lets herself shake before him and spares a glance at her guard as if in search of protection. There will be none, she knows.

 

“There you are, my lady,” he says, coming closer. “I’ve been looking for you. Now that your traitor father and brother are dead, I really think we ought to make amends, don’t you think?” He is within reach now and wastes no time touching her cheek, trailing a finger across her lips.

 

Her lips part of their own accord, and her tongue licks them wet. Softly, for his ears alone, she says, “All I’ve ever wanted was to please you, Your Grace.”

 

She wonders that he does not see it. But his lust-filled eyes are focused on her lips. His breath catches. Then, he takes her hand and puts it in the crook of his elbow. “And I did promise you a Lannister baby. I doubt my uncle can perform the task, small as he is.” He laughs at his own jape.

 

She does her best to look pleased and grateful as they walk to his chambers. She presses her body against his while he bars the door shut behind them. He kisses her lips, and she turns her face, letting his have her neck instead.

 

Her hands are swift to take down his sword belt. “My king, shall I take down my hair for you?”

 

“Yes, yes,” he pulls back to look at her. “Take it all off.”

 

She smiles and bows her head. “Of course, Your grace.

 

The hairpin is ornate and gold, befitting the wife of a Lannister. The shaft is long as a knife and as small as a needle. Her hair tumbles onto her shoulders. He reaches his hand up to touch them, and she turns her face toward it, bringing him a step closer.

 

It digs into the palm of her hand, but she does not mind the pain. While he is distracted, she lifts the arm with the hairpin and brings it down towards his head. It strikes him in the eye, and he cries out. So loudly that someone must be coming. He drops to his knees, hands coming up to push her away but his fumbles are easily withstood. She leans her full weight onto her arm, driving it deeper into him until his movements cease.

 

His remaining eye is blank in death, like her father’s. She tilts her head. The smile has not left her lips. There is blood on her hand but less than she thought. The wound is bleeding still, slowly. There is a splash of blood on her gown when she pulls the hairpin from his eye socket.

 

She unbars the door.

 

Cersei has the guards beat her bloody. Tyrion cannot stop it, though he does try. She weeps. And she laughs. There is shock for she knows that they are hitting her harder than they’ve dared before, but there is no pain. Blood running down her nose into her mouth, she laughs.

 

She’s no longer allowed the luxury of a comfortable prison. They bring her to the dungeons where she cannot escape or perform any other treason. Her cell is dark and dirty without a seat. She sits on the ground and closes her eyes. She thinks of Arya’s mulish expression, stabbing at the table. Of Rickon’s giggle when she touched her nose to his. Of Robb’s fingers fast on Bran’s stomach, making him shriek with laughter. Even of Jon holding her to him with one hand, the other holding a stick, declaring himself Prince Aemon the dragonknight. Of Mother brushing her hair. She will spend her last night remembering home.

 

A sound startles her awake. She feels weak with exhaustion, and her body aches. Whatever stayed the pain from her is gone now. She hopes that it is time for her execution but it is still dark. She waits silently, her breath shallow.

 

“Lady Sansa.” Tyrion. A torch gives just enough light to make out his face. His sellsword is with him. He brings the light closer to take a look at her. “I - I’m sorry that I could not stop them from hurting you, my lady.”

 

“Why should you care? I killed your nephew. Hateful as he was, he was still your blood.”

 

“And you are my wife. I swore to protect you, and I mean to.”

 

“Yes, and we’d best be quick about it if you’re going to get her out of here ‘fore the guards come,” Bronn interrupts. He opens the door to her cell and goes to Sansa’s side. He is not gentle in his haste to have her standing.

 

A muffled whimper, and Tyrion admonishes, “Careful.”

 

She breathes through the pain and follows him out of the cell. She had thought she would die tomorrow. Instead, none of them talk as they lead her through a passageway out of the Red Keep. The summer’s nights are cool, and she shivers. They hear guards on the other side of walls as they tiptoe past. When they make it outside, Tyrion holds a finger to his lips.

 

They wait.

 

A shadow moves towards them. Bronn’s hand grips the handle of his sword. Tyrion stands in front of her arms out. The moonlight brings the form into focus. It is a knight, tall with blonde hair. A woman knight. Tyrion turns to her.

 

Tyrion turns to her. “Lady Brienne was your mother’s sworn shield. She will protect you.”

 

Sansa ducks her head, knowing her face s still covered in blood. What true knight would want to protect a killer?

 

The lady knight moves to kneel before her, but Tyrion mutters, “There’s time for that later when you’re clear of here. The further away you are from King’s Landing when Cersei discovers Sansa gone, the better.”

 

“Come, Lady Sansa. It is a small distance to the horses,” Lady Brienne says.

 

Sansa takes a step toward her. Since Joffrey executed her father, all she’s wanted is to go home. To be given a chance at last feels like a dream come too late. She doesn’t trust it. She looks back at Tyrion, finding his eyes. They are kind and sympathetic as they’ve always been. His smile is sad but she finds no hint of deceit on his face. She takes a breath and follows Lady Brienne into the dark.

 

Before they turn a corner, she turns back. Tyrion stands with his sellsword watching her. Her eyes narrow minutely in question, and she resumes her pursuit.

 

Lady Brienne apologizes to her for the necessity of their haste, unable to stop to tend to Sansa’s wounds. They and her squire should ride until daybreak and only stop then to water the horses. Sansa only nods. They ride east, not north. She doesn’t question it. Cersei will send soldiers in every direction looking for her but most will be sent north.

 

When they stop, Podrick helps Sansa down from the horse. The blood has surely caked to her face along with dirt from the road. She is bruised and ugly, but he still blushes when she thanks him. Her thighs cramp from riding for hours. She stumbles to the river. She splashes water on her face once, twice, before scrubbing vigorously at her hands and face. She is finally sure that no blood remains on her skin when Lady Brienne approaches her. She turns and stands, warily.

 

Lady Brienne kneels before her, her sword at her feet. “Lady Sansa. In commitment to the vow I made to your mother, I offer you my service. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

 

Sansa stares down at her. She knows the words; even if not for Septa, they are in all the best stories. Instead, she asks, curious, “were you with her when they killed her?”

 

“No, my lady. Your mother had already sent me south with Jaime Lannister to trade him for you and your sister. She loved you both very much. She defied Robb to save you.”

 

Her nose stings with the tears she holds back. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

 

Sansa remains hidden while Podrick gathers supplies and food for their journey. Lady Brienne stays with her, her hand coming to her sword at every rustle in the dark. She is fierce and watchful, and Sansa misses Arya terribly then. She would be thrilled to see a lady knight and have so many questions for her. She would be begging Father to allow her to train.

 

“Where do you think we should go, my lady?”

 

She leans further into the bark at her back. No one is home for her to return to; the Boltons hold Winterfell and the North. There are enemies at every side. She knows Lord Manderly died along with her family. She knows Robb murdered a Karstark. She knows her uncle, the Blackfish, is missing, and Uncle Edmure a hostage to the Freys.

 

“To Stannis Baratheon,” she says finally. “My father supported his claim to the throne, and with my brothers dead, I am the heir to Winterfell. He cannot hope to secure the North without me.”

 

“I have heard that he is headed north to the Wall.”

 

Where Jon is. She hasn’t thought of him in ages. She thinks of his dour look, eyebrows perpetually down while the rest of them played. A smile plays at her lips. “To the Wall then.”

 

The journey there is long and hard. Her horse throws a shoe. Lannister guards find them; Lady Brienne kills them all. They sleep in turns, always watching, always wary. They trust no one. Sansa keeps her hair, bright and recognizable even with the lack of oils, underneath a shawl. They ride under the cover of darkness. It is rare for them to feel at ease enough to share a story from their past.

 

She learns that Podrick is new to Brienne’s service, that the Red Woman controls Stannis Baratheon, that a shadow with his face killed his brother. Brienne saw it, and Sansa believes her. Still, she says he is the only one they can go to. Jon is at the Wall, but he has made his vows to the Night’s Watch. He cannot abandon them for her in the same way Robb could not trade the Kingslayer for two girls. He will remain true to his vows in the way Father would. Her claim to the North is all she has to bargain with now.

 

When they arrive at Castle Black, her skin is cold and pale. The cloak alone cannot guard her against the chill. Their words are truer now than ever before; Winter is coming. She sits atop a tired, grey horse. She drops her shawl onto her shoulders. The gates open. The men are scattered in the yard, curious but no one comes closer to investigate. She dismounts her horse and looks around. A movement catches her attention from the top of the battlements.

 

She breathes in sharply. Jon. He’s grown stronger. His eyes are as dark as she remembers, but his expression isn’t as dour as she expected. His eyes are wide, fixed on her as hers are fixed on him, while he walks down the stairs. Her mouth parts. There are mere feet between them, and something unnamed in her shifts. Her arms reach for him first. But his are firm around her, nearly overlapping. He squeezes her so tightly, her heart unclenches. He smells of sweat and woodsmoke. She nuzzles her face into his neck and breathes him in.

 

Jon protests that she should be able to bathe and eat first, but she is taken to Stannis Baratheon dirty and hungry. The assurance of her allegiance matters more than her comfort. She curtsies and remains down until he bids her rise. A woman with hair a red darker and closer to brown than Sansa’s stands at his side. An older man stands at the other. Davos Seaworth, she is told.

 

Jon is at her back and Lady Brienne beside him. “Your Grace,” she acknowledges.

 

“I knew your father. He was an honorable man. Will you support my claim as he did, or will you follow your brother, the usurper?” His face is stern.

 

She is only a girl with traitor’s blood. “I have only my claim and my name. I have no armies to contest you with nor the desire to. My brother’s hand was forced when Joffrey took my father’s head. I have avenged him and can do what honor demands.”

 

He grunts. “Your name is enough to rally the North behind you,” he says.

 

“That may be, but it is not safe enough to even travel to my bannermen, Your Grace. I took only my sworn shield with me when I escaped King’s Landing. It would be so sweet to be home yet wishes cannot make it so.”

 

“I will root out the Bolton betrayers from your halls and return your bannermen’s keeps to them. When I restore you as Lady of Winterfell, the North will follow you. And you will bend the knee.”

 

Her hair is in a single braid over her shoulder. She allows gratitude to mark her features, a smile to move her lips but she only meets his eyes for a brief moment, too conscious of the Red Woman’s eyes on her. “That would make me very happy, Your Grace.”

 

He says nothing of her marriage. Perhaps, unless she falls pregnant, he will not see it as a hindrance. For now, her name is enough to secure her safety here.

 

Jon walks her to chambers near his own. He has a bath brought up for her and then soup and ale. She feels stronger now that she has washed. He stares at her as she eats, as she details the circumstances of Father’s death, separating gossip from the truth for him. He tells her how he almost left his post to join Robb’s army when he heard the news, of mercy killing Mance Rayder, and the real war between the living and the dead beyond the Wall.

 

Then, “But what happened to you, Sansa? Were you treated well? And what of Arya?”

 

“I haven’t seen Arya since before Father was arrested. If the Lannisters had her, they would parade her before the court. I can only hope that she escaped and is safe somewhere far away.”

 

“Is that what they did to you, parade you?”

 

“Every time Robb won a battle, they brought me out to pay for it. They beat me. They humiliated me. They married me to the imp. But I am alive. It’s more than can be said for our brothers.” She takes another sip of her soup. He watches her still; she turns the bowl in her hands. Her eyes drop for this part, not out of shame but fear. “Tyrion helped me escape. He was always kind to me, but Joffrey… I have bled for him. I have cried and begged for him. It was never enough; he always wanted more. He would have hurt me and took until there was nothing left if I hadn’t killed him. Maybe not that day but someday.” She moistens her lips, forcing her gaze up. “I know it isn’t how Father would have done things.”

 

The furrow is back in his eyebrows, but his eyes are kind, always kind and earnest. “I don’t care that you killed Joffrey,” he says. “I don’t care what you did. I’m glad he’s dead.”

 

“Thank you, Jon.” She sets her soup down and turns to face him fully. “I know what you’ll say, but I have to ask. The Night’s Watch is sworn to have no loyalty to any house. I won’t be able to stay here long. I’ll ride with King Stannis to gather forces, but eventually, I’ll go home to Winterfell. When I do, will you come with me?”

 

His eyes turn sad then, and she knows his answer. How she wishes it was different. He is honor bound to stay and fight for the Night’s Watch, and honor is everything to a Stark.

 

“That’s not the only reason.” His hands rub themselves against each other. “The Night’s Watch are undermanned as it is, more so now that we’ve been attacked by wildlings and the dead. And they’re not going to stop coming. The Realm will never be safe — you’ll never be safe — until the Night King is defeated. I have to stay and fight.”

 

“And die.”

 

He leans back with a sigh. “Aye, if I have to.”

 

The fire crackles, and she watches the colors dance. There are no words for a moment. Then, “I’m not afraid to die either. If it’s quick, I imagine there’s no pain before it’s all over. What I fear is dying before I have what I want.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

Her eyes shift to his. “Vengeance.”


	2. Chapter 2

**The only one**

 

Chapter 2

 

She fashions herself a dark cloak and dress with the Stark sigil. Her fingers ache from the work. When she places the pelt on her shoulders and touches the wolf on her chest, it strengthens her. The Red Woman watches her with a jealousy and suspiciousness that resembles Cersei. Sansa will not give her reason to fear her relationship to the king. She dines with the Brothers of the Night’s Watch, though Stannis’s food is more to her standard. She rooms in Castle Black, though it is not entirely proper for a lady.

 

It is long past supper. The castle is quiet. Ghost warms her legs, but she cannot sleep.

 

She finds him swinging a training sword at a dummy in the training yard. His breath is heavy, his arm more so. Even with its wrappings and having a wooden weapon, she wonders that he does not tear it apart.

 

“Jon.” He stops, and she approaches. She thinks of Father’s hand on her cheek. When has she last known a touch that had no other motive but to comfort her? It is natural to reach for his hand. “King Stannis wants to retake the Glover keep before I ride with him to request northern fealty. You can’t come with me, but there is something else you can do for me.” She takes the wooden sword from him. “Will you teach me?”

 

His face goes slack, eyes moving from hers to the sword and back again. “You want to learn to fight?”

 

Her gaze brightens with unreleased laughter. “No. I will be the Lady of Winterfell. I can never be a swordswoman. Besides, I have Brienne for that.” His shoulders relax. “I want you to teach me how to part a man’s head from his shoulders.”

 

“No one will expect you to be an executioner, Sansa.”

 

“Mother always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. She told me that that I might teach my sons. Without you, without Bran and Rickon, it falls to me. I will take the head of every Bolton and Frey who manages to survive the battles. Will you help me?”

 

“Alright. Alright, I’ll help you.” His hand tightens around hers.

 

He takes time each evening to teach her. She must learn to swing as easily as she does thread a line into a needle if she is to give men clean deaths. It will be less painful for the men and easier for her bannermen to watch. His hands are on hers often showing her the proper position and grip. She touches him more now, too. Even through gloves, each touch reminds her that he is here and whole in front of her, that she is not as alone in the world as she feels.

 

King Stannis secures Lord Glover’s home, and they are to part soon. Jon is eager for her to leave. He will not say more than that Castle Black is no place for a lady. But she sees the way the men look at her. And there is none of the fear that will surely stop them from attacking the Red Woman when they watch her, only lust. She is hardly ever alone between Brienne and Jon’s hovering. He trains his people. He argues for the wildlings. He comes to find her and assure himself of her safety. Brienne parts from her side to wash and make waste; otherwise, she is always there.

 

The offer for her hand comes with the seal broken. It claims that Robb legitimized Roose Bolton’s bastard, Ramsay, before he died. Rather than fight a war, he means to tie the North together by marrying his son to Eddard Stark’s last known living child. The letter addresses King Stannis solely and asks for his approval of the match as Protector of the Realm. She hands it to Jon who crumples it in his fist.

 

She shows none of her rage and indignation when she meets with her king to discuss it.

 

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I know nothing of the treaties made during times of war. An alliance through marriage makes sense if you could be sure that it would be carried out. It will do little to arrange a wedding only to have the last trueborn Stark murdered as my brother and mother were.” Her hands remain at her sides, her face impassive. “Or completed only for it to be known that I am a prisoner in my own home as my Uncle Edmure is now.”

 

There is sympathy in Davos’s eyes when he agrees with her that it is dangerous request and that the Boltons have shown they cannot be trusted. King Stannis turns to his Red Woman and dismisses the rest of them to have her opinion.

 

“What did he say?” Jon asks. “He can’t mean you to marry him after what they did.”

 

Her breath is fast and shallow. “It’s up to Melisandre what happens next.” A sob forms in her throat that she swallows. He is close as always, and she leans her head on his shoulder. A brief moment of weakness before she lifts her head and looks at him with no feeling. “The Boltons, the Freys, and the Lannisters will die. What happens to me doesn’t matter, but I will see myself protected until it is done. He is my king, not my master, and I will not marry an enemy of my house again.”

 

“You’ll never have to. I’ll go speak with him.” His mouth curls into a snarl, and her fingers brush over it and his brow to smooth them.

 

“Oh, Jon. Fighting won’t solve this, and a Brother of the Night’s Watch does not involve himself with the affairs of warring houses.”

 

“Even Father threw away his honor and lied to all of King’s Landing when it meant protecting his family,” he counters. “I’ve broken my vows before when I had to. I’ll do it again for you. I can’t — I can’t let him marry you off to Ramsay Bolton. The Lord Commander is apprised of the goings on of the Realm. He’s…”

 

“A monster,” she finishes.

 

“He skinned Lord Cerwyn alive. You should never be near him.”

 

He wants to protect her. He wants to save her like no one could then. But, “I want you to come with me. I want you to leave the Others to someone else, come home, and help rebuild Winterfell with me. Help me remember if I have the right shade of drapes. I want us to avenge our brothers and father together. But not because you think you need to protect me. No decision has been made, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it if it had been, Jon. You’re just one man. You can’t fight an entire army.”

 

She doesn’t mean it to sound cruel, though her tone implies she shouldn’t have to say it. Once, she had believed in heroes. She knows they exist now. There are men and women like Shae and Jon who try to fight injustice and protect the weak and innocent. What match are those heroes to a knife they can’t see coming?

 

Whispers come to her that night while she sleeps. _We’re all liars here, and every one of us is better than you._ She feels the flat of a blade against the back of her thighs, knocking her onto her knees. _In ten years, who knows what treason she may hatch?_ Lord Janos Slynt throwing her father down. _The gods have no mercy._ The coolness of Heart Eater against her lips. _Don’t trust anyone._ Blood covering her thighs. _The world is built by killers._ Her own bruised face in the mirror.

 

She wakes with a gasp, a sheen of sweat on her skin. She stands with the candle by her bed in her hands and searches her room. Only when she finds no one does she open her door slightly to be sure someone is keeping watch over her.

 

It is Jon tonight. He turns to her and eyes her through the crack of the door. “Are you alright?”

 

She nods, breath pushing past her lips. The door’s wood is rough against her cheek when she opens it further. She is only in her shift, and he moves to block the view inside from the hallway. She takes his hand and tugs him forward. “Come sit by the fire with me.”

 

His eyebrows drop, and he parts his lips to speak. She gives him her back. The door shuts. She sits by the hearth with her head in her hands, fingers covering her mouth. The fire crackles. Neither of them speak. The fire begins to die and Sansa stands. She lies beneath her covers, wrapping herself tightly in fur. Jon remains seated.

 

“Asking you to come home with me was selfish,” she says softly. “You’re needed here. I see the way they look to you for guidance, for approval. They believe in you.”

 

“And what about you? Don’t you need me?” He asks.

 

A sigh. “I do.” She licks her lips. “What will happen to the wildlings and the Night’s Watch under Alliser Thorne’s command?”

 

“Nothing good. I know I need to stay here and do what’s right. It’s what my men need. It’s what the Realm needs with the Others coming. But every time you’re out of my sight, I worry for you. I don’t know how I’ll manage you being leagues away again when I can’t take you being in the next room.”

 

“It’s hard for me, too. Do your duty anyway.”

 

The Red Woman comes to her before daybreak. She enters the room without an invitation. Sansa does not mind. Jon is gone, and it is better to find out her fate here with less of an audience. Her dress shows more skin than any other this far north, yet her pallor never pales with cold. She trails her fingers across the tops of the furnishings. Sansa lifts a hand to stop Ghost’s jump from the bed.

 

“My king would have you remain as you are for the Lord of Light wills it. I have seen you and your brother in my fires. He fights the night that is coming without end with you shielding his back.” She turns to Sansa, her head tilted. “Your desire will kill by the thousands. You will make kings rise and fall. It is the Prince who is Promised that brings the dawn. From you, there is only blood.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, eyes wide and innocent.

 

“You do, and you do not want to. The Lord of Light will use his servants well in the Great War, even those who hide from what they are.”

 

Her smile unnerves Sansa, and she forces herself to keep her mask in place. The Red Woman sweeps from the room. Ghost pads to Sansa’s side.

 

With the marriage proposal refused, war is imminent. Sansa hugs Jon goodbye in a nook far from the Red Woman’s eyes. She makes him promise to stay safe until she returns. She hesitates to leave him. It is a fantasy but she feels safe in his arms, his lips in her hair. She inhales his scent deeply. When she turns from him, she does not steal another glance. She rides through the gates of Castle Black with an army at her back.

 

House Bolton is hated and distrusted, but they attack their enemies where they are weakest.

 

As Sansa and King Stannis travel to each northern house, sons and daughters go missing in the night. Stannis has fifteen thousand fighting men in his army. He ascertains that the Boltons have six, the Umbers who stand with them bring two and the Freys four. Still, while they have the numbers, the Boltons have the North’s children.

 

The war council consists of a lord from each of her bannermen who have sworn to fight for her cause, Stannis’s trusted advisors, and the men who want their children returned to them. Stannis speaks loudly over them arguing that they should continue with the plan for battle. He speaks of his dominion over them with a finality that threatens retribution should they disobey. The lords’ faces increasingly harden. Robb was king here; Father was Warden. Stannis is simply another Southerner who doesn’t know their ways or care for their people if he’s willing to see mere babes die.

 

Stepping out from the shadow, she addresses her people as only she can. She is the Lady of Winterfell. “No one will thank us for winning the battle if they must leave it to bury their daughters and heirs.” She meets Stannis’ eyes. “This is my home. I cannot avenge my family by dismissing my bannermen’s love for theirs. There is another way.”

 

With Lady Stark against him, Stannis’s expression closes with a flash of defeat. “And what way is that?”

 

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Trade me for my bannermen’s children. Lord Bolton will let them go once he has me.”

 

More shouting and protests. She cannot make out a voice from the din. Her voice carries over it all, the only woman in the tent save the Red Woman who watches on, eyes locked on Sansa. “My father started this war by thinking Cersei would leave her place of power to die in some foreign land. My brother failed the North when he executed Lord Karstark rather than send him to the Wall. It is only right that I, as their heir, should repay the great debt my family owes to the North. It is just, and it is the only way.”

 

The tent is quiet. There is no fear that she need hide. She speaks true. More than that, the North has been held by men of her house for centuries. There has never been a Wardeness of the North, and most of these men remember her for the frivolous girl that she was. She must prove herself a strong and worthy leader for them to follow. She cannot join them in battle, but she can show them that she is also willing to put her life at risk.

 

It is Lord Rodrik Forrester whose nod of approval thrills her before he breaks the silence. “One hostage is easier to rescue than the four and twenty they have now. They cannot hope to keep your home protected well while sending ample enough men to die on the battlefield.”

 

Lord Manderly steps forward. “We’ll place watchmen here and here,” he points at the map on the table. “They will alert us should they try to smuggle the lady away.”

 

“At least ten scores of men at the very least will remain in the castle to protect Lady Bolton.”

 

“The ladies are easier to protect when we are together,” Sansa says. “Perhaps in a tower. The broken tower would be least likely to be thought of as it lacks comfort and therefore where I would choose should we be attacked. If Lord Bolton means to hide his wife well, it will be there.”

 

Her blood runs hot through her while she watches them continue to plan. Lord Bolton and his bastard will die by her design. All the men crowd around the map. Even Stannis looks less stern now that he is assured a battle will take place.

 

Each time they mention her, they call her Lady Stark.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t say goodbye. He listens to her reasoning, her plan to risk her life for their family name and home, but he can’t bring himself to see her the day she sets off. He cannot watch her leave Castle Black with no hope of her return while he plans with his Brothers to fight the dead. He must stay here. It is his duty to guard the Realm. It is his duty to protect her.

 

The men jape and talk. They spill their words without care. He thinks she might fail. He thinks she might be lost to him forever. He thinks of her beacon of red hair in this dreary place. Of its color set against her black and grey garb. She is light brought to warm him in winter.

 

She is gone. 

 

Brienne must stay behind as well. The plan to appear meek and defenseless before the Boltons would be undone if her sworn shield, known to have vested three men at once, is with her. She makes use of herself helping train his men. There is a shadow in her eyes that he sees but will not name. He will not speak her name here where he learned of their father’s death, of Robb’s and Bran’s and Rickon’s.

 

He fells three men of his own in the training yard. He offers a hand to those who can’t stand with their own strength. He warns them that if he can beat them, they don’t stand a chance against the Night King. He focuses on little else but training and the bare necessities needed for survival. 

 

He was whole before she returned to him. It makes no sense that he is now undone without her safe at his side. 

 

He fights, tires, and fights again. He begins working with the wildlings. Their way is cruder than what he was shown at home, but it’s good to have men who move unexpectedly, who can knock him off his feet. 

 

There’s surprise first as the first sword cuts flesh. He grabs at it to hold it inside of him, stop the blood that will pour out quick. It cuts his palms when the boy removes it. A crowd of his brothers stand waiting for their turn. The betrayal hits where they haven’t yet touched. His sword is taken from his sheath; even could he fight them all, he can do nothing without a weapon. 

 

It is a shameful thought to have. Perhaps, it is better to fall asleep here. Leave the dead to these men. Leave this world with his body as broken as his will is. He might see them again in what’s beyond this.

 

Then, noise of clanging swords and shouts reach him. He makes himself roll away from the coming blow. It is dark but the moonlight shines on his sword. He grabs it. He stands. He cuts through the men who would see him dead until he cannot determine if the blood covering him is his or theirs. 

 

He sways on his feet. He may fall now but Brienne is suddenly there, securing a shoulder under his arm.

 

“How?” He coughs. “How did you know?”

 

“Lady Sansa bid me watch over you.”

 

_Who will watch over her with you here?_ he doesn't ask. She supports most of his weight while they walk back to the keep. His arm aches from the stretch to her neck, but it is better than dying here in the cold. It is logical that she would be here helping him when she could not sneak her way into Winterfell. The lady knight is far too recognizable. It doesn't make it any easier to stomach the thought of Sansa alone where she ought to be safe in their home with people who would do her harm.

 

She left mid-morning. Anything could have happened by now. She could be, she could be... He gasps in pain at the thought, and Brienne hurries their pace.

 


End file.
